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It was a weekend morning, and I was grumpy enough, topping off the family car. This was a common fuel stop that also functions as a convenience store, so you run the risk of ending up in line shoppers with carts of pricey provisions. A terrible fate to unfold when the sole aim is to get gasoline and leave. Awful.

Fourth in line I stood in the queue. Just one person serving, a youthful clerk. Something stood out to her presence. After the ditherer at the head of the line had at last settled for a cleaning product, his sausage roll, and a carton of eggs, I could have sworn that I heard the cashier tell him an excellent day. Unusual. Could be I misunderstood, or possibly she uttered it and meant it ironically. I wondered if she could even be an ally in the war on delays, echoing my disdain for those who delay simple fuel-buyers like me.

I moved up, becoming the third customer. The new leader of the queue finished pumping gas with commendable speed. And there it was again: “Have a wonderful day.” No, actually, it was “have a wonderful day”. A stateside native? In Stourbridge? She had the accent, and hardly anyone here wishes anyone a wonderful day, or merely a pleasant day. Quite out of place. You don’t get US citizens visiting this town, and definitely not working in petrol stations or other places.

Now I stood second. Behind a poor older woman embroiled in a right old battle with her carryall, her food items, her purse and her loyalty card. This took an eternity. When she was done, she as well received the wish a wonderful day. Clearly an American. I could have confirmed it by cracking a joke at the cashier, to observe that thing their typical stare, stoically, and say with absolute sincerity: “You are very amusing.” However, nothing occurred of a jest to utter.

I just had to settle the genuine warmth – or a performance of it, that equates to no different – as she gazed directly into my eyes, to my very core, and bid me an awesome day. My spirits lifted. It was a good thing.